


Surprise

by Severina



Series: Alphabet Soup [19]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: 1_million_words, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5215073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting in front of the precinct, John comes up with a good plan. Pizza, beer and the game. Okay, it's an old stalwart, but there's nothing wrong with the classics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surprise

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Rain". Written for prompt "S" at LJ's 1_million_words A to Z challenge.
> 
> * * *

Sitting in front of the precinct, John comes up with a good plan. Pizza, beer and the game. Okay, it's an old stalwart, but there's nothing wrong with the classics.

He refines the plan as the rain intensifies and lightning splits the sky. Delivery from Gianetti's is out in this fucking downpour, but he can throw in one of those cardboard pizzas that Matt insists on keeping in the freezer 'just in case'. Strip off his wet clothes and take a hot shower while the pie is cooking, then settle on the sofa with a couple of pepperoni slices, a cold Bud and the Rangers on the tube. 

It's not Papagayo's but it'll do in a pinch.

John drops his head and pinches the bridge of his nose as he factors in a couple of likely probabilities. He'll probably pass out during the intermission, because there'll be nobody else there chattering to him about the inanity of grown men in oversized padded shorts chasing a puck around the ice. He'll wake up in the middle of the night with a crick in his neck and some infomercial about Ginsu knives blasting from the idiot box, because nobody was there to dive into his lap and tuck warm hands under the hem of his old wifebeater and nibble at his collarbone. He'll grunt and groan making his way to the bed like some kind of old man, because Matt's not there to remind him otherwise. 

He jerks when there's a tap on the glass to his left, rolls down the window while pretending that he didn't just make a subtle and immediately aborted move for his weapon. The wind immediately gusts, splattering him with rain, and he lifts a hand to slowly wipe at his face. He'd just fuckin' got dry. Always the way.

"Well?" he barks.

The rookie looks all of twelve years old in his yellow slicker, the hood up and cinched around his neck so the tuft of purple hair on his scalp is hidden from view. The concerned look on his face is all cop, though. "Uh," he says, "everything okay, Detective McClane?"

"Fine," John says shortly. "Just… thinking."

Thinking about what a pathetic fucking loser he is. He had enough lonely nights before Matt came into his life, and he sure as shit doesn't laze around on a goddamn barca lounger eating simulated pizza and crying like a fuckin' kid that dropped his ice cream cone. Fuck that. 

It's time for a new plan.

He shoos Munroe away, squares his shoulders and digs out his phone. There's probably some new-age high-tech way to find the address with a flick of his thumb, but John's always been an old-fashioned kind of guy. He calls directory assistance and has the address for Skynet Game Stop in about thirty seconds. Couple of stops and he's on his way.

Of course, by the time he gets there the rain has rendered anything more than ten feet beyond his window into the blurs of a surrealistic painting. All he can make out is snatches of blue and green and grey, figures stretched into indistinct lines. He finally mutters under his breath and turns up his collar and steps out into the deluge, and the figures coalesce into a shitload of Matt lookalikes in slouchy jeans and too many shirts, all crowded back against the wall in a vain attempt to avoid the downpour and talking excitedly about something called the Krell Lord. He picks out the least annoying of the group – a short tubby kid wearing shorts and sandals in goddamn October – and asks about Matt. 

That's when he finds out there's more than one Skynet Game Stop in the city. Who knew?

He cruises by three other Skynets, surprised and amazed by the sheer number of pasty nerds in the city. Chubby ones, skinny ones, tall ones and short ones, but they all got that uniform chalky white skin and too-big eyes. He makes a mental note to start dragging Matt outta bed and out jogging with him at least once a week. Maybe twice. 

He finally finds the kid huddled by the big glass doors of a small Skynet in a strip mall, along with at least twenty other morons. Sorry, gaming enthusiasts. And that Wolverine thing that Matt just _had_ to run in and buy when they were out last week is a 'collectible', not a toy. Right. John sighs, grabs the white plastic bags from the backseat, unfurls one of the umbrellas, and steps out into the storm.

"No way," Matt says in greeting. "McClane?"

The kid is drenched, looks like a fuckin' drowned sheepdog puppy with all that damn hair. But the smile that lights up his face makes John's chest clench, and maybe makes most of the doubts about his master plan – the ones that had been trying to insinuate their nasty little way into his brain for the past ninety minutes – fade away into tiny little insignificant mutters way in the back of his noggin.

"Way," he says dryly. It's the only thing about him that is. He holds up the plastic bag in the hand that's not holding the umbrella. "Figured if we couldn't go to Papagayo's, I'd bring a little Mexican to you," he says.

"You are a god," Matt says, snatching the bag out of his hand. He turns to a skinny little thing with long red hair and the requisite three shirts. John had always thought the multiple shirt thing was just Matt being incomprehensibly weird, but it must be some kind of geek fashion statement. Her curls are mostly drenched straight by the rain and she should definitely eat a couple three burgers, but she's a cute little number. "Didn't I tell you he was a god?"

"I think you specified _sex_ god," the girl says before holding out her hand. "So this is the famous John McClane."

"For about fifteen minutes," John says, not for the first time. Her grip is firm, but just the right kind of firm. Not like she's trying too hard, but also a little reminder that she'd have no qualms about punching you in the nuts if you step outta line. Kinda reminds him of his Lucy. "Just John'll do."

"Hey, I'm Mickey."

He's had years of experience to school his face into appropriate lines no matter what the occasion – he's a goddamn detective, for chrissakes – but John's sure nothing hides the surprise on his face. He darts a quick look at the kid. " _This_ is Mickey?"

Matt shrugs. "Yeah. Why?" he asks around a mouthful of what appears to be bean burrito. 

"Jeeeezus Matt, there's cutlery," John says. 

"Why would I need cutlery for a burrito?" Matt mumbles, still chewing.

John ducks his head; fusses with digging around in the bag for the knives and forks, shoves a takeout container into Mickey's hands with a "help yourself" and pulls out the additional umbrella, all to cover the flustered, stupid, ridiculous _relief_ he feels at discovering that Mickey is a petite little redhead with perky tits and not some hulking football player type. 

Not that he fools Matt at all. 

"You were jealous," Matt crows when he's finally gulped down half his burrito in three large bites.

John snorts. He doesn't do jealous. If he did jealous, he would've punched Ellis in the face the first moment he saw him, way back when at Nakatomi. If he did jealous, him and Holly wouldn't have lasted five minutes with all the guys that used to sniff around his wife. That's what happens when you date someone that's way the hell above your league. Somehow he ended up with two hotties in Holly and Matt. He's used to being the mutt in the room. 

He'd been _concerned_ , that was all. 

"Jealous," Matt sing-songs, as if he'd spoken to contradict him. The burrito he waves in his hand is sopping.

"You gonna use that umbrella or not?" John grunts out. 

"Kinda hard to eat and hold an umbrella at the same time," Matt says. "And I'm starving, dude."

John grunts again. Serves the damn kid right, half the time he forgets to eat unless someone's there to nudge him into it. Oughtta let him suffer. But then Matt turns those big brown puppy dog eyes in his direction, and somehow John ends up getting drenched himself – again – while he holds both umbrellas over Matt and his friend while they wolf down enough food to feed four people. They even use the plates, so he guesses he shouldn't complain.

Maybe his face is giving something away though – damn, he really should be better than this – because Matt eyes him cautiously when he comes up for air. "I'm sorry I bailed on you," he says.

John thought he was okay with it – Matt's young, he has other interests, things that seem really vital at twenty-five mean nothing when you're in your damn fifties – but there's a little spark inside that really is pissed off at the kid's last minute cancellation. But the place to talk about it isn't while standing in the dark in the middle of a rainstorm with an audience of two dozen nerds. He lifts a soaking shoulder and keeps his mouth shut.

Matt the motor-mouth never learned how to hold his tongue. John should have remembered.

"I know you don't get it. This. The whole gaming culture, RPing, my thing with the guild. Immortal Defender and the Krell Lord. Anything that was invented later than 1972," Matt says with a slanted half-grin. The attempt at a smile fades when he meets John's eyes. "I didn't want to miss our date, I really didn't. But they threw this announcement up out of nowhere, and…" 

Maybe John's stoic face is better than he thought, because the kid's shoulders suddenly slump and he's suddenly staring hard at the water pooling on the concrete. 

"I shouldn't have bailed," he says.

"I don't get it," John says. The kid winces despite his mild tone, and with the long wet hair dangling in his eyes and soaking into his scalp he looks even more sad and scrawny than usual. The spark of annoyance flicks out, replaced by the desire to comfort, to reassure. Just like that. John takes a breath, lets it out in a cloud of mist. "But I get that it's important to you," he continues. "We're fine."

Matt's head whips up, and John sees relief and satisfaction flit over Matt's face. And then that's replaced by a look that John has previously only seen when they are about to head into the bedroom. "I'll make it up to you," Matt says.

That look _should_ be absolutely pathetic coming from someone resembling a drowned rat, but John's chest still squeezes tight and his cock twitches with interest. And the kid knows it, too, because Matt suddenly laughs and flings an arm around his waist and kisses him. Just fuckin' straight out kisses him in the middle of the street, and it ought to feel weird and awkward but instead all he can think of is that Matt is in his arms – where he ought to be, his mind insists on adding – and yeah, it ain't awkward at all. John staggers back in the face of it, rubs his hands over the kid's arms, and only then realizes that the goofy smile on Matt's face is matched by one of his own.

Matt's got hours to wait in the rain, and John knows that he likely fully intends to head straight back to his shitty little walk-up and play his stupid game until he can't see straight. But at his house there's a fireplace, oversized towels and a hot bath and… hell, there might even be some candles left over from that last power outage. He's pretty damn sure if he shows up again close to midnight he'll be able to convince the kid to crash at his place instead. And then he can warm Matt up properly.

He's sure he can be a lot more persuasive than a Krell Lord. Whatever the hell that is.


End file.
